


Old Things, Steady Things

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, Knitting, Love Confessions, M/M, Presents, The bookshop, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: 'It is, Crowley decides, an ugly sweater. But it's finished, which puts it considerably ahead of his first two attempts and everything looks more or less right, which beats the other three. Besides, it's Christmas Eve tomorrow and he's running out of time.But Aziraphale likes old things, steady things that he's had for years and this is so new it didn't exist except as an idea in Crowley's head until a few days ago. Perhaps he's going too fast again.'Or, Crowley tries to show his feelings through a different kind of love language.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 133





	Old Things, Steady Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt 'ugly sweater,' for a challenge. I am no longer involved with the challenge but as this fic was already written, it seemed a shame not to share it. 
> 
> And a huge thank you to DaydreamingofDragons, who patiently gave me all the knitting terminology I could need so that Crowley could get in a mess with it.

It is, Crowley decides, an ugly sweater. But it's finished, which puts it considerably ahead of his first two attempts and everything looks more or less right, which beats the other three. Besides, it's Christmas Eve tomorrow and he's running out of time. 

He folds the jumper neatly. The human way. Strokes down the wool with a careful finger and wonders if it'll feel different in the future, after Aziraphale's worn it. If, of course, he likes it and wears it and doesn't laugh in Crowley's face. 

Not that Aziraphale's ever done that before, even when they've been on bad terms, but...Aziraphale likes old things, steady things that he's had for years. 

This is so new it didn't exist except as an idea in Crowley's head until a few days ago. Perhaps he's going too fast again. 

He picks the sweater up a couple more times that evening; once to undo it and start again - he's a demon, it's not really like running out of time is going to be a problem for him, if he decides not to let it be one - once to wrap it up in red paper with white snowflakes that remind him of stars. 

In the end, he paces. Watches the stars through windows that know better than to get condensation however warm he keeps it, however much he mists the plants, and hopes. 

It's not a prayer. Demons, even ex-demons or former demons or whatever he's meant to be calling himself now, don't get to pray. And having dreams seems greedy when he's still got Aziraphale, who would have been entirely justified in pointing out that they didn't need to keep seeing each other now. 

He wants to, of course. If he had his way, he'd spend the next 6,000 years spending as much time with Aziraphale as they'd spent apart over the last 6,000. 

So it's enough, entirely enough, that they talk most days. That they go to restaurants and art shows and museums, walk through London so close together that the streetlights meld their shadows into one. He doesn't need any more than that. 

But demons are greedy.

And Crowley has been a demon for so very long. 

He wants more. 

Which is why, early the next morning, he's standing in Aziraphale's shop, still bleary eyed and trying to push the blue jumper into Aziraphale's hands while explaining exactly why he made it. What he's actually managing is mostly a stream of consonants that Aziraphale is nodding at, in the gentle way he has which normally means he's worried about Crowley. 

'Sit down, dear boy.'

Crowley does, almost staggering to the couch. He's still holding the sweater, which feels ridiculous now. Too dramatic, too meaningful a gesture. Should have gone with something that he could play off as not actually having taken time and effort. 

The shop is full of blinking lights and shimmering decorations that are multiplied because of..oh Hell. He pushes his glasses up just long enough to scrub his hand across his eyes. 

He's not on the verge of crying, from some weird mixture of embarrassment and realisation that he's screwed everything up. Not really. 

But Aziraphale's known him for all his life, in this form, and there's only ever been one secret he's managed to keep from him. 

'Drink?' Aziraphale offers. 

He's got the cup halfway to his mouth before he realises it's tea rather than wine. He shrugs and gulps it anyway. 

Aziraphale perches next to him, looking concerned. 'Now, do you want to explain all that again, please, Crowley?'

All this time and there's still a thrill at hearing his name, his chosen name, from Aziraphale's lips. 

'I, uh, made that for you. For Christmas.' He holds the bundle of wool out again; tries not to focus on the two or three mistakes he can see from here. Of course Aziraphale won't wear it, it's got mistakes and Aziraphale likes everything to be perfect. 

'Sorry, I should have asked...' His voice trails off and he goes to pull it back to his chest. 

Aziraphale's still staring at him, and he wishes the angel would actually say something, rather than this endless silence. 

'I just...' There isn't a follow up to that that isn't a lie, because it isn't a just anything.

'You made this for me? Yourself?' Aziraphale reaches out and Crowley lets him; of course he does. 

'It's not very good.'

'You used a beautiful colour.' 

He manages to keep his stupid mouth closed enough to avoid any comments about Aziraphale's eyes and the blue and silver wool he's used. 

'Can I see it?'

And that's another thing that he loves; that Aziraphale always asks before taking, even when it's something that belongs to him. He nods. 

Aziraphale's fingers brush against his in a way that has to be accidental. Warm and so very gentle. 

He studies Aziraphale studying what he'd made. It's a poor substitute for stars and comets but it's made by his hands just the same. Crowley thinks he might as well have stood naked in front of Aziraphale for how exposed he feels.   
'You made this for me?' Aziraphale repeats. He's stroking one of the cables that Crowley had spent so much time swearing at. 

'Yes.'

'It's beautiful.'

It's not. It's ugly and it's made by a demon and it's as flawed as he is, but...

'Crowley, this is beautiful. No-one's ever made me anything before.'

He manages a half hearted shrug but can't persuade his mouth to work at all. 

'I didn't know you could knit,' and that's safer ground. 

'Couldn't a few weeks back. Taught myself. Can weave and sew and stuff, knitting was new. Learnt about magic loops decreases and stuff, and stitches - kept dropping bloody stitches. It's not very good.'

'Thank you,' Aziraphale says suddenly. 'Thank you, Crowley,' and there's a weight, a stress to his words as though he's trying to encompass more than this moment and this exchange. 

'It's only -'

'I meant for everything. I don't think I've ever thanked you, have I? Not properly.'

'You don't have to. I didn't do it for that.'

'I know you didn't. But I want to.'

Aziraphale moves so he's sitting even closer than before, and Crowley has a moment to hope, a moment to doubt, and then...

'Crowley, could I kiss you?'

He doesn't trust himself enough to reply, so he settles for touching Aziraphale's face, palm against cheek in a way straight out of his dreams. Aziraphale leans, cat-like, into the contact and smiles and kisses him. 

It's clumsy. Crowley's glasses get banged against his nose. Aziraphale's teeth scrape across his lips. It's nothing, and everything, like what he thought kissing might be like. Aziraphale pulls him closer, crushing the bundled up jumper between them, and after a moment, he can't remember why he ever had any doubts about this. 

Aziraphale loves him back.


End file.
